


A Dead King

by insane_bookworm



Category: Caravan Road - K.V. Johansen
Genre: Gods of Nabban, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 20:29:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14901453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insane_bookworm/pseuds/insane_bookworm





	A Dead King

The dead stay dead. If this were a myth or a faerie story, then perhaps one could rightfully claim otherwise. In myths no one truly dies. Yes, the evil is always slain. And yes, oftentimes the hero will also perish, his or her life a sacrifice gladly given in exchange for the salvation of the innocent. But such an end is not true death, for heroes and villains alike live on in songs and stories, pass into legends to be told and remembered across countless generations. Fictions, all of them, as the sole keepers of the whole truth have long since been sent to their road. May their journey to their Old Great Gods be short. Or long, however they deserve. Perhaps at times, though I do not will it, I may sympathize with those whose fate I will eventually share – those whose foul deeds stretch their walk longer than their mortal life – when time comes I take to my own road. My long, long, endless road. But no, I have earned that eternal walk. Each and every infernal second it takes me, every endless league. I deserve all that and more. The chiding he would give me, could he hear my thoughts. “Not your fault,” he says. But it is. All of it, all the blood, the pain, the killing. My fault. All the deaths that stain my tattered soul. A burden I shall carry with me the rest of the time I walk in this world, and all the eternity I spend in the next. But my mind strays, yet again.

Those in myth – the heroes, the villains, the victims, their killers – they are remembered. And so they live on. Changed, yes. Glorified, vilified, perfected copies of their true selves. But still, they live.

In faerie stories it is much the same. Here, however, there is always some trick, some little twist of fate or fortune that allows the hero and all the good folk to somehow, against all odds, survive. Survive to celebrate their victory and thrive for the rest of their long, happy, natural lives. And all, even the slain villain and the nameless peasants, live on in memory. The care of their stories, their lives, passed down from mothers to their children. Children who grow to become parents themselves – or uncles or aunts – to pass the stories’ keeping unto their own children. And thus it goes, a net of chains, woven of words, lasting through the ages, holding all to life. And so the slain are never truly dead.

And some might say, myths and faerie stories are just that. Stories. Not true history. Not real people. But are all stories not rooted in truth?

But this is not some myth, carried and sang of by bards. Nor some faerie story told to entertain the children while their parents work. This is reality. Real life. Real. And in real life people die. In real life the dead stay dead, the flickering candle flames of their lives snuffed out. The fragile threads binding souls to this world cut through. Their feet set upon their road to take them to their Old Great Gods. To die, to be killed, is to be dead. To stay dead. An ending. That is the way of things.

So why do I yet linger? Why do I cling to this tortured existence? This constant nightmare that latches on like a leech, night and day, asleep and awake. Why do I let him hold me here? When I know I have just to say, “Let me go.” And he will. He will release me to my road. No matter how much he needs me. Loves me. Because it is always my choice, he says. It is my choice to go, to die, to truly die. Or to stay. He would not beg, he said. He would not ask, but to one time say: “You are free now. Perhaps, try living again? I will let you go, whenever you desire it. Stay. For only as long as you will. It is your choice. Always your choice. I can walk my path alone. I’d rather not. Walk with me a while yet?”

Can the dead ever live again? Can a dead king – dead ninety long years – learn how to once more live? Not simply walk and talk and breathe and eat, but truly _live_. So many years after dying in the fire I spent wishing, hoping, for death to finally take me. For something, _anything_ , to tear me from the fire, from _her_ , and to set my feet upon the road. For so many years welcoming the swords, the knives, the spears, the axes…every time hoping beyond hope that this time the strike would fall true. But a goddess is not to be denied, her curse not to be broken. _She_ would not be denied. And so, consumed by fire – burning, always burning – choking on smoke, I remained.

Until…now?

I am free, he tells me. _She_ is gone. My body, mind, and soul wrenched from her claws. Her very soul snuffed out, like a candle flame pinched between two fingers. Not sent to her road. _Gone_. And I remain. The dead king who still draws breath. Who he asks to try living again. Free. Free from the fire that still consumes my dreams. Free from the unwanted embrace of the devil in the well. Free.

Am I truly free? Can I ever be that? Can I ever escape their grasping, tearing, burning claws when they yet live in my dreams, my nightmares that carry into the waking world? When still I shout, lash out. Mad. Seeking to kill those already killed. Afraid to sleep, to close my eyes, for fear one day he will be too slow. For fear one day he will be unable to stop me, to wake me. To reach me. And I will again have on my hands the blood of one who loved me. The blood of one I love. Afraid to speak once he wakes me, for the only words I would be able to say would be: “Let me go.” End this. Please. There is only so much one man can bear. Even a dead king. And I fear I passed that mark long, long ago. Please. Let me go. Release me to my road. _Please_. But I stay silent.

I promised. He needs me, no matter he does not say it. He does. He needs me to see him, to look past what he has become, what he still must become, and truly see _him_. I promised to try. For him – my half-wit boy, my stray cat. For him I will try. I will try to live again, try to break my nightmares, to make myself believe, truly believe and know that it is over. All that is left are dreams, memories that cannot touch me. They cannot touch me. _She_ cannot touch me. I must believe. Believe that I can wake up and know that it is over, know that they are gone. Forever gone. And that they cannot hurt me. She cannot hurt me. Cannot force me to kill. Cannot force me into madness. I must believe that I am safe. With him I am safe.

I can wake myself. Pull myself out from my dreams to wake and know that this…this… _freedom_ is real. As real as the acorns clenched in my fist, three small anchors to sanity in this storm of fire and madness. I can break free from my nightmares to wake with him close beside me, with his arms wrapped around me and mine around him. Holding, not choking. Embracing, not restraining. I can believe that he is safe. From them. From me. I can believe that they cannot hurt him. They cannot hurt me. I am safe. Warm. Held. Safe. _We_ are safe. Together we are safe.

For I am his. Not theirs. Not _hers_. His. I give myself to him. Body and heart and soul. I lay my soul in his hands, complete surrender of myself, surrender of my own choosing. My choice, of my own free will. I am not theirs. I am _his_. So many names I have had, in the course of my unnatural life. So many different masks I have worn. And masks they all were, masks that did not matter for none of them were true. Taken on only to be discarded. Each name, each title, merely a word, not a person. All of them temporary. All save one. One name. The one by which he calls me, knows me. The one who belongs to this time, this life. The one who belongs to _him_. That is who I am. Who I always am. Not king nor assassin nor general. Not slave nor puppet. I am simply his. Only and always. His. For he is the earth and the deep water and the sky between the stars. He is river, snow, and stone. And I am part of him. I am dust and ashes. I am fire. I was consumed by fire and I was made from fire. I am the hearth and the sun and the candle’s flame. I am what he makes of me. Blood and breath I am his. And together…together we are whole.

And maybe…just maybe…

A dead king can learn to live again.


End file.
